It’s great that the taxi group will redo their lights on top of cabs. Great. Heaven forfend that the industry blows their extra bread to feed our elderly homebound poor, or donates to Hurricane Katrina’s disenfranchised. Don’t even think of funneling loose shekels to save animals. And forget putting aside bail money for assorted NY state politicians.

Fixing lights on cabs, great. But, first, how about fixing the cabs?! Air conditioning that works in summer. Wintertime, a de-smeller to vaporize that falafel whiff from under the front seat.

Maybe a few bucks for care and feeding of the cabbie’s middle digit so, when he raises the thing, it’s manicured. I mean, I hate a middle finger with raggedy cuticles, don’t you?

I’m not picky but peut-être a small stash laid aside for breathing purposes. If you don’t wash the windows — fine. Not essential to be able to peer outside. But that device that opens the windows? Seeing it work occasionally would be nice. Determining that the inside door handle doesn’t wrench off in your hand, also nice.

Possibly fleet owners could pool resources to hire someone who’d clean those cars periodically. Nothing radical like a simonize job. More an occasional feather-duster flick. Best would be, our Department of Sanitation sticks the passenger side of cabs on their garbage collection route. In one back seat, I found a shopping bag from Klein’s. In it a note read: “Sam, our Pan Am flight takes off 4 p.m.”

Let us even apportion a half-inch of pfennings toward driver-protection methods. Or toward teaching them English. A novel concept would be to have them actually learn the city. This is all in fun because I’m not really one to knock cabbies. I actually like the specie. They’re very helpful. They’ll take you anywhere they want to go.

Someone once said, any mathematical failure who can’t compute the shortest distance between two points puts in for a medallion. But I believe that was said by a grumpy tourist who hailed a yellow job on 86th and Fifth, asked to go to 59th and Fifth — and the driver automatically made a left.

Nonetheless, they’re savvy. One driver skillfully avoided four pedestrians in a row. “If you hit them,” he explained, “you have to fill out a report.”

Can we discuss their temperament? Light a cigarette? He’s allergic. Want change? Has none. Need a receipt? Just gave away his last one. Want the belly-dancing CD tuned lower? He’s insulted.

Nobody’s suggesting installing tapes that softly play Brahms or Mozart. That could clash with the crash of banging into a Mercedes fender. Or sound dissonant while gunning a motor out of a pothole. Amazing how automobile makers can manufacture an entire vehicle that makes noise — except the horn.

I, personally, consider it shameful that anyone who really knows how to run this country is busy driving a taxi for a living. Who knows? Maybe Obama doesn’t even have a driver’s license.

Another thing. Who can fit into these cabs? The proportions are so small you don’t climb into them, you put them on.

New models are on the street, but I rode one so antique that if left out at night, vandals wouldn’t bother with it. They’d figure someone beat them to the job.

And their meters click faster than the engines. The tariff is so high that, if you’re mugged, it’s cheaper to wait for an ambulance.

All anyone thinks to do is rejigger roof lights? Why? So it’s easier to determine if they’re available? Because confused folk have difficulty getting cabs? What difficulty! Rain is what makes flowers appear and taxis disappear. Those off-duty lights are wired to flick on whenever touched by a drop of damp.

Comes a drizzle, you can wait until Donald Trump’s kid is a senior citizen before you nail an empty hack. They’re all full. So what difficulty?

Besides, of course, their uncanny knack for when you’re late for work, which is when they pass you by every time. So what difference what kind of lights they have?

Anyway, Wednesday night I was off to meet Pedro Almodóvar and Antonio Banderas, who’ve just made the terrific movie “The Skin I Live In.” I didn’t want to be late. With Manhattan’s traffic, being in a real hurry, the only way was to get out and walk.

Back to the lights. Comes now the question, what kind of lights? Frosted? Colored? Fluorescent? Neon? Halogen? Hundred-watt? On and off flashers? Let’s put our swiftest minds on this. Let’s corral those brains that will be dredging our Second Avenue subway until the day John Liu finally realizes he’s not mayoral material.